Can Technology Save You?
by In The Blink of an Eye
Summary: Viola Viaduct is obsessed with her own gadjets, but when she finds herself thrown into the Hunger Games with her best friend, can she find a way out for both of them?
1. Chapter 1

I placed down my project carefully, making sure the wires stayed in the exact same position. It was vital for the last part. I placed the old-fashioned soldering iron on the circuit board and fed the solder to the hottest part of the tool.

When I had finished, I had a complete circuit board, blobs of shiny solder glinted between lines of metal. That was the technical part of my model. It was time to the design actual figure. I grabbed a piece of design paper and a digital scribe and began sketching.

I began with the basic figure of a woman. Then I added clothes, a fitted jacket, insulated trousers and sturdy boots. I added a curved smile, small nose and dark eyes. As the battery life started draining on my scribe, I sped up a little more, and wavy dark hair caressed the figure's back. As a last touch, I added a small dagger in her belt.

I shuffled through all the layers of design ideas, paper and general rubbish on my table for the extension cable. It was here somewhere. By the time I found the dratted thing, half of my not-really-organised mess was on the floor. But still, I was the only one who came in here.

I was in the loft. The opening to the loft was very carefully concealed behind my bed. The builder of the house obviously had some problems with secrecy and the Peacekeepers - the Capitol doesn't like anyone who steps out of line. District 13 was the last one to step out of line, and look what happened to them. All of the people were now dead and the ruins are still a nuclear wasteland, toxic to anything living.

But then, we're not too sure about this. Some of us in District 3 have created a secret organisation called Triple Digits. Only a handful of families know about it. Triple Digits is a small group of people who are not happy with the way the Capitol has dealt with problems in the past. Basically, they don't approve of the Hunger Games. Thinking about it logically, it is a cold-hearted game the Capitol is forcing us to play. We have no choice.

We're not stupid. Anyone who has a basic level of intelligence can see that they are using the same footage over and over. The conclusion is that they are hiding something. Why else would you not get fresh footage of the smoking ruins? There is a smell of rebellion in the air.

My train of thought has drifted from my project, but I begin to create the jacket. I have few materials, but seeing as this is one of my biggest projects yet, I have been hoarding any type of fabric I can. Just yesterday, I found the perfect material for the trousers. Dad's trousers might be a little shorter now, but no great loss.

It was getting dark and the pitiful candle that stands on a shelf was weaker. I must remember to make something stronger to replace it. I stood and blew out the light. I left everything where it is. My workshop may be messy, but I know where most of my stuff is.

I crawled down the ladder and pushed it up to conceal it. I writhed through the small space under my bed. When I got out, I placed the usual box in front of the opening. I'd done it so many times; it has become a reflex action.

It felt odd to be back in real life. I could get lost in my own world in the loft. That was when I remembered; it's the reaping tomorrow. The concentration required to make a moving model had made me forget the most important event of the year.

Chills scraped down my spine and I slid meekly into bed.


	2. Chapter 2

A large crash woke me from my slumber. I cracked open an eyelid to see Mum clutching my wardrobe door. There was a dent in the wall where the door had obviously hit it.

She looked stressed - really stressed. Being my third year in the reaping, my name had been written on 3 slips of paper. There wasn't a high chance of me being picked, but nearly every parent dreaded their child being chosen. In poorer districts, you could ask for tesserae, which is where you could get grain and oil in exchange for your name on more slips of paper. Not many people in District Three need to do it anymore.

Mum closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She communicates by a type of sign language we made up because she has been mute since birth. She mimed 'blouse and skirt', pointed in the wardrobe and escaped just as urgently.

I got out of bed into the icy morning air which seeped through the open window. Rubbing my arms slightly, I took hold of the outfit. Trying to feel good about it, I convinced myself that this is the only day in a whole year that I have to wear it.

Don't get me wrong, it's a nice outfit. The blouse though, it's just... white. I despised white. White meant nothingness and emptiness. Even black is better than white. I haven't worn white since I was five.

Placing it on my bed, I entered the bathroom to take a lukewarm bath. When I was done, I slipped into the clothes. The black skirt hung about an inch above my knees. Normally I wouldn't wear this sort of thing but the Reaping requires you to dress in your best clothes. The blouse fitted perfectly but my fingers stumbled over the buttons. I realised that I felt nervous. I tried to dismiss the feeling – the odds were in my favour! What were the chances?

I pulled my brush through my stubborn wavy hair and let it hang loose. Pushing two small silver spherical studs through my ears, I stepped into grey shoes and looked at myself in the mirror. It barely looked like me – the normal me.

Dad nudged the door open and gave me a quick up and down. He gave the thumbs up and pulled the door shut again. The pitter patter of retreating footsteps followed. Dad's very quiet, maybe influenced by Mum, but he can still talk. I heard the low murmur of his voice downstairs, punctuated by pauses where Mum 'speaks'.

I could feel butterflies in my stomach and I tried to quench them by breathing deeply and listening to the sounds of the house. The stairs creaked as Mikko went down. It was most likely to be Mikko – my other brother Luke, preferred to stay in his room before the Reaping. Mikko was 16 and a bubbly person, quite opposite to his brother, Luke, 18. Even the five previous years, the hours drawing up to the Reaping were always this quiet and solitary in the house.

The muted conversation picked up a notch as Mikko joined them. Then there was silence and the sound of the front door opening. I recognised the sound of the voice, even before the uneven sound of footsteps on the stairs and even before the face appeared around the door.

"Hello Serious Face," Alex liked to call me that when I looked humourless. He smiled pleasantly, and immediately, the cheerful aura that he carried around rubbed off on me. I patted the bed and he came in and slumped down. "Goodness, this Reaping has to be so formal doesn't it?" He said, pulling at the sharp crease in his trousers. He looked at me properly and had a start. "Wow, is Viola Viaduct finally getting over her phobia of white?"

I punched him lightly. "You know it isn't that, Alex. And you know that it isn't my choice whether I wear this or not." I felt agitated again. Alex didn't say anything. I glanced over. He had hard, grim frown on his face, and his forehead was crumpled like a tissue. As I was about to shake him out of his daze, he turned and laughed, and the look was gone. I asked what the look was for.

"I was imitating you, you muffin," He stood up. "Lighten up; you're not going to get picked for the Hunger Games!"


End file.
